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HIDDEN VALLEY
There is a hidden valley where few people go,
Where a pristine river runs broad and slow,
It widens out to a lake many fathoms deep,
And along its banks shepherds tend there sheep.

A few pretty cottages grace the steep hillside,
At night the flickering lights shine far and wide.

There are no bust roads or highways, just a path to walk,
And of any worldly things there is very little talk,
A haven of peace and solitude waiting to be found,
All you’ll hear are kind words and natures pleasing sounds.

One day when sad and weary this path I did find,
And I felt the healing as down the hill I did wind,
Sweet singing voices carried on the cool evening air,
Inviting me to rest for a little while there.

The trees seemed more green, all standing tall,
Wild flowers in profusion grew, some large, others small,
The fragrance healing me with every breath I took,
With the beauty all around I could write a book.

I was given water that was like the smell of flowers,
Fresh fruit at perfection, grown in sun and showers,
I bathed in the river and my weariness faded away,
If only I could stay there for many a sweet day.

There was a cottage all ready just for me,
Furnishing I would have chosen, music playing softly,
And there by the fireside glowing bright, a cozy bed,
There I rested and slept the moment I laid down my head.

I know not how long I stayed in that hidden valley,
Of all days and nights I had lost all count or tally,
But one morning I knew I was healed so I should go,
Slowly up the hillside I went leaving behind my woe.

Now as i come up from behind the rock near the trees
And that strait row of pines swaying in the breeze,
Everything had stood still just a moment had gone by,
I never could explain the mystery of the hidden valley.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson September 1, 2003